


Broken, Unbroken

by Greenie (hidetheteaspoons)



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Corm doesn't need to be taken care of, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Post-Lethal White, Robin isn't having it, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Whump-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26666362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidetheteaspoons/pseuds/Greenie
Summary: Just a sweet little bit of post-Lethal White fluff, in which an injury leads Robin and Cormoran down a new path, together. Title from the poem "Broken, Unbroken" by Mary Oliver.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 21
Kudos: 83





	Broken, Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always, to my amazing beta, @themysteriousphoenix, and to the lovely people over at the Denmark Street Discord who motivated me to finish this.

_Then I myself,_

_lonely,_

_said hello_

_to good fortune._

_Someone_

_came along_

_and lingered_

_and little by little_

_became everything_

_that makes the difference._

_Oh, how I wish such luck_

_to everyone._

_How beautiful it is_

_to be unbroken._

_-Mary Olliver, “Broken, Unbroken”_

It had been a month since their work on the Chiswell case had come to a close and Cormoran's knee was as fucked as ever. He'd wrenched it when chasing a potential lead through the crowded London streets. Neither Robin in her high-heeled boots nor Strike on his false leg could catch up with the man, despite their best efforts. After his protests of being ‘able to walk just fine’ fell on deaf ears, Cormoran collapsed in the rear of the taxi his partner had just flagged down.

Upon arriving at Denmark Street, Cormoran cursed himself for his seemingly inherent ability to overwork his body to the point of injury. He’d stupidly done so many times before, and this was nothing new for him. However, the level of pain he was in was another matter entirely.

Robin rounded the rear of the taxi to meet him curbside, but he refused to allow her to open the door for him. Under no circumstances should she have to mollycoddle him. But that was the thing he loved about Robin - she respected his boundaries when it came to his leg. She never pushed him or scolded him. She never resented him, despite his brokenness. Robin gave help when he asked and when he was ready to accept it.

Cormoran was a proud man. He believed Charlotte was partly to thank for that. She had offered him help when he needed it most after the loss of his leg in Afghanistan, and she’d held it against him every moment since he began walking on the prosthesis. Every argument they’d ever had always circled back to the fact that she had taken him in and nursed him back to health. He had been bloody grateful at the time, thinking that she was all he had. Now, he realized that Charlotte had truly resented him for it.

Bringing his mind slowly back to the present, he shakily made his way out of the cab and slammed the door behind him.

“You alright?” Robin asked, a note of concern in her voice.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Strike muttered under his breath, certain that Robin had heard him once he saw her eyebrows furrow in frustration.

“Sorry…” she hesitated. “Anything I can do?”

“Let’s just get inside.”

With that, Cormoran winced his way to the doorstep of their building, with Robin trailing close behind. He let out a gasp and with every step, the pain in his stump became all the more unbearable.

“ _Fucking_ leg,” he moaned, as he reached the stairwell, pausing to take a breath. He leaned against the railing, practically unable to hold himself up.

“Cormoran,” he heard a sharp, firm voice behind him. Robin came up beside him, looping her arm under his shoulder and around his back to support him the best she could. He was both surprised and pleased at her proximity.

“Where’s your walking stick? I can go up and grab it.”

“Left it at Nick and Ilsa’s last weekend,” he growled in frustration.

“Well fat lot of good it’s doing you there isn’t it?” Robin replied as a hint of a smile crossed her face. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, and Robin sighed. “Guess you’ll just have to use me then…”

“What do you mean?” Strike asked, genuine confusion etched in his face.

“What I mean is, you have no walking stick and no way to get upstairs and be able to ease the weight off your leg at the same time. It’s either leaning on me or you’re sleeping in the busted lift tonight. Take your pick?” she countered.

“I can’t put all my weight on you,” Strike protested, well aware of the fact that her hand still grasped at his shirt and its warmth seeped through to his skin underneath.

“God, of course not. But you can put a little and hopefully, that’ll be enough to take some of the weight off your leg. Now, up you get,” she commanded, leading Comoran around the banister, to the foot of the stairs.

Surprisingly, Strike was able to put a good deal of weight on Robin as he slowly hobbled up the two flights to his flat, one stair at a time. It took the better part of ten minutes and they were both breathless when they reached the top.

Upon reaching the landing, he gave Robin a once over to ensure that she was unharmed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she told him.

“What’s that?” he responded.

“It’s all those gymkhanas,” she said cheekily, still snugly pressed against his side.

_I’ll say,_ he thought to himself, trying not to lean further against her than was absolutely necessary...as much as he wanted to.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Strike withdrew his keys. Still holding on to Robin, he unlocked the door and gave it a shove, and it hit the wall with a _bang._

“Home sweet home,” Robin murmured, ushering Strike into the middle of the room and kicking the door closed behind her.

“Where are you wanting to settle?” she asked as she glanced around the attic flat.

“Er...maybe just the chair for now. Got to get this bloody leg off.”

She nodded and gripped his opposite hip, a little harder than she meant to. He sucked in a breath at the feel of her gently pinching his waist. Robin noticed and immediately apologized.

“‘S’alright,” he responded, trying to not to look at her _too_ fondly. If only she knew how much he had _enjoyed_ it...she probably would have left him out on Denmark Street to fend for himself.

When he was finally at his chair, he collapsed and sighed, throwing his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“Tea?” she offered.

“You don’t have t--” Cormoran began to protest.

“--I know I don’t,” Robin interrupted. “Listen, I know you’re a man, and you’re...well... _you_. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I know you don’t like being taken care of but…”

Strike quirked a brow in response, curious as to where she was going with this train of thought. “But what?” he inquired curiously.

“Well, maybe you _should_ let someone care for you.”

Strike was momentarily stunned by the meaning of her words. Care _for_ him? “You mean…”

“I mean you’re hurt, Cormoran. And I’m here.”

“You think I don’t like to be taken care of...and you’re still offering to take care of me?” he asked, searching for clarification.

She was silent.

“I don’t like to be a burden,” he growled, glancing down at his prosthesis in frustration.

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were,” Robin stated simply.

His eyes met hers once more, boring hard into them. He didn’t say a word, but felt a fire of warmth in his chest at the thought of Robin staying with him voluntarily...caring for him.

“Alright,” he consented.

“Now, tea?” she repeated, smiling and heading toward the small kitchen area.

“Please,” Strike half-groaned as he leaned over to remove his prosthesis.

After a few moments, the kettle was whistling and Robin doled their tea out in two chipped, mismatching mugs. They were so ‘Strike’ that she didn’t even think about the fact that they were broken and different colors.

She laid his tea on the small table beside where he sat and fell into a chair opposite him. Robin admired him in the low light of the flat, taking in his tousled hair, his tired eyes, and his large frame. Though she liked looking at him, she was worried about him. She hoped that he wouldn’t need to go to the A&E, but if he had to, she’d get him there.

“Why do you think you’re a burden?” she asked quietly.

He sipped his tea and sighed, resigned to the fact that he could be nothing but honest with her.

“Charlotte…” he started.

“Ah, say no more,” she replied, sarcastically. But his eyes told her everything. He wanted to do exactly that. “Sorry - go on?”

“Charlotte used to...when we fought she’d...she’d use my leg against me all the time. Make me feel guilty for everything she did for me when I lost it. Being in the hospital, going to all the appointments, having a broken future husband. Just when I sometimes started to forget that I’d lost it, she was always there to remind me of it. I could never escape the guilt I felt or her resentment toward me. I guess I just figure if I don’t ask for anything, then I won’t owe anything.”

“Christ, Cormoran,” Robin swore. “She really did a number on you.”

Strike grunted in agreement but did not take his eyes from hers. “S'pose so.”

“You’re not, you know.”

“Not what?” Strike questioned.

“You’re not a burden. You never have been and you never will be. Who you are today is the result of a terrible event that never should have happened to you. No one should ever hold that against you. If they do, then they’re a fool.”

“You sound like a shrink,” Strike responded, smiling at her.

She smiled back. God, he loved to see her smile. He loved it even more when he was the one who gave it to her.

“I’m not surprised. After the attack it...it took me years of counseling to realize that I wasn’t the problem. No matter how much I told myself it wasn’t my fault, I just felt like a burden to everyone. To my mum and dad for having to quit school, to Matthew for having to leave him, though he seems to have gotten on _just_ fine without me. But most of all, I had to realize that I wasn't a burden...to myself, odd as that may sound.”

“No, I get it,” Strike responded, almost immediately. “You're not your attack. It was a thing that happened...a horrible thing. It’s not your fault and it doesn’t change who you are.”

Robin’s eyes glistened and she looked away. In the dim light, he saw the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and longed to reach out to her, to wipe them away. “I think you might be the first person that’s ever told me that,” she replied, her voice low and trembling.

“Robin--” he breathed, his statement of her name a question in its tone.

“Cormoran…”

“Come here, please?” his velvety soft voice called to her, beckoned her to him.

As if by magnetism, she rose to her feet and stood before him. He leaned forward and gently removed the mug from her hands, setting it next to his own on the table. He hesitated, then reached for her, his hands finding the curve of her hips, pulling her down to him.

“What are you--”

With a squeak, Robin found herself against a solid, warm body. Cormoran’s body. It was the first time she’d been held by him in over a year, and she forgot how good he felt. She collapsed against him, mindful of his stump. She sat on the opposite leg as he swung her feet up and over the arm of the chair, her head cradled against his shoulder. She was in the perfect position to inhale all the scents that were distinctly Cormoran - a woodsy aftershave, a smoky aroma, and a musky undertone.

All of the sensations - the feel of his solid frame beneath and against her, their scents mingling in the air of the attic flat, their heartbeats racing together like wild horses on an abandoned beach. They were all so overwhelming and yet, not, at the same time.

Cormoran was an old kind of familiar. The embrace they’d shared at her wedding the year prior had never really left her. It was as if they’d picked right back up from where they left off, never once having gone through the last year of torture they’d both endured.

Robin tucked her cheek against Cormoran’s shoulder while his chin rested atop her honey-gold hair. The tears flowed and she sobbed and sniveled against his shirt, a cathartic release of all the things she’d been feeling for so long.

Strike’s hand rose to cup the back of her head and he kissed her hair, reveling in the smell of her and the feel of her. He never wanted the moment to end, but he did want her suffering to end. He patiently waited until the heaving of her chest subsided before he spoke.

As he drew in a breath to speak, she beat him to the punch. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped, attempting to sit up and break away from him. Cormoran caught her by the waist before she could make her escape.

“Stay, Robin. Please?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears not to come. She tried everything in her power to shake her head ‘no’, but her mind, body, and soul all told her ‘yes.’ They won in the end. She fell back against him, her face falling even with his neck. “You don’t want me to stay, Cormoran. I’m so very broken --”

“Shh,” he interrupted, a finger rising to her lips to prevent her from speaking.

“If you’re broken, then I’m broken,” he replied, his voice low and husky. “We’re not the things that happened to us, remember?”

She nodded, recalling her own words from a few moments prior.

“Maybe...maybe there are just enough pieces between the two of us to make one whole person,” Robin replied, both surprised and thrilled at her own boldness.

Strike hummed and nuzzled his nose against her cheek while deep in thought.

“Maybe so,” he replied. This was dangerous. They were laying everything and nothing out on the line at the same time. He so badly wanted to kiss her, to show her how _not_ broken she was, and how much he wanted to support her. To be with her. To love her…

It was the first time he’d allowed himself to consider that he was in love with Robin. He’d thought of it in the past, hoping to chalk it up to simple infatuation or flirtation. But no, this was not the case. What he had with Robin ran so much deeper and _bigger_ than the both of them. It was a new, sure thing that, in his heart, he knew had been there, lying dormant from the very beginning. It teased him, cropping up when he least expected. It was not an unpleasant thing, far from it. It was a strong thing that he hoped would be returned in one way or another.

“I want to be broken with you,” he whispered, not thinking of the consequences of his words.

He felt Robin gasp and tremble in response. Slowly, she lifted her face and eyes to meet him, still blanketed by his warmth. “What do you mean?”

“I mean to say that, I’d rather be broken with you than whole with someone else.”

Robin hiccuped in a failed attempt to muffle a sob, her eyes once again shining with tears. She couldn’t believe what Cormoran Strike had just told her - that he wanted to be with her. Where most people might see being “broken” as an insult, she knew what it meant for him to say what he’d said, and no way was she going to allow him to slip through her fingers again.

“Say it again,” she pleaded through her tears.

“Say what?” he asked, smiling coyly.

“The bit about how you want to be with me.”

“I want to be with you, Robin Ellacott. Broken, whole, and everything in between. I want it all with you.”

“But...the agency--”

“Sod the agency. Going into this with that being the biggest thing on my mind is already setting it up to fail. I’m tired of thinking only about how everything can fail, and not about how it can succeed. You and I together have made this business what it is, and we’ll continue to do that.”

“No more ‘what if’s’ then?” she asked, curiously.

“No more ‘what if’s,’” he affirmed.

“So, uh, if I were to kiss the boss, would I be in trouble?”

Strike smiled and shook his head. “You’d be in more trouble for _not_ kissing the boss. C’mere.”

With that, Robin shifted against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and seizing his lips with her own. It was a slow, warm kiss at first. He growled against her mouth, wanting more of her. All of her. She opened her mouth to him, giving him permission to explore her, to consume her. The flame that had been stirring within his chest earlier in the evening had been fanned and grew larger with each connection of their lips. Just when Strike was sure that he’d burst, Robin slowed their pace to soft, slow brushes and nips. She pulled away and came back to herself, crying aloud, “Oh God, Cormoran, your leg!”

He sleepily came to and only muttered “Hmm?” in response.

“Your leg, I completely forgot,”

“Mmm, me too. Come back.” It was the truth. When holding and kissing Robin, all the pain he had been feeling had been a dull roar, replaced with thoughts of her and only her. Now that she stood over him, her warmth just out of reach, he was reminded with a jolt of just how much pain he’d been in. She was truly the remedy for any of the ailments he’d ever had - his mind, his heart, his leg. Seeing her was a drug he never knew he needed - his thoughts were instantly calmed when she was near him. Robin filled in the cracks in his heart that had been left by Charlotte. He forgot his pain for just a little while when he was with her. She made him feel whole in ways he hadn’t been in his entire life.

She smiled, kissing him chastely on the lips. His mouth followed hers as she pulled back and reached her hands out to him to help him up. “Shower, Paracetamol, cream, and bed with you.”

Robin turned to begin assisting him, but he pulled her against him, arm around her waist, and hand in her hair. A delighted shiver danced its way down Robin’s spine.

“You’ll stay.” It wasn’t a question or a command. It was merely a statement of fact.

She smiled as his hand moved to cup her cheek. She covered it with her own, nodding.

“Yeah. I’ll stay.”


End file.
